The Spirit Pipe
by Silken Hood
Summary: Journey back through time to discover how the Amulet of Samarkand came to be. When a revered leader is murdered, a battle of wills, magic, and revenge will test all those who it touches.


Chapter 1 – Qyrth

The rain poured onto the ground, embracing the rocks and cold moss of the mountain. The trail was slick and shone with wet stripes. The stone lilies drooped under the downward current, thorns dripped and leaves quivered. The rain was intercut with an occasional jolt of hail, and it stung the bare backs of the men as they trudged up the path. The man in the lead began to make a sound deep in his throat, which grew and spun itself into a song, deep and chanting. The men began to walk in rhythm with the hoarse song, and stamped their feet as they walked, sending shimmering drops over the side of the narrow path. The sun had long been absent in the hills, covered by the sky people's weeping pillows. Qyrth bent his head and let rivulets roll into his eyes from his braids, now clinging to his neck and forehead. The small torrents ran down his face and into his mouth, he drank of the cold. In his hand he clutched a bead with numb fingers, and on his back he bore the stripes of his discipline. His boots had been soaked though, and his feet seemed to have vanished, as he could not feel them. He reached a hand out and ran it along the hard stone skin of the mountain, touched his fingers to his lips and tasted salt. Not long now. A skitter, behind him Hursh fell, the knobbed stick he supported himself with clattered down the valley and struck the river, forever lost to the lowlands. A crack like tinder burning, and Qyrth knew the old man's head had collided with the sodden ground, and the moss now drank his blood. Qyrth could not look back, doing so would disgrace the elder's legacy. Immet stepped over Hursh's body and continued behind Qyrth. The song continued, no one missed a step. A final steep incline and they arrived at the summit. Ahead, the Chief Fallen spread his bent arms and breathed in deeply the high and thin air, it was like his blood. Qyrth followed his motions, in awe of his chief. He was Khemmer Ab Arur, he himself had carried away twenty heads from the white village below. His strength was legend, shining beads adorned his visage, on his throat, his wrists, and in his braids. His tattoos reached to his neck. Qyrth fingered his one marking on the shaven side of his head, a single mark behind his brow. The Chief Fallen stopped and moved up his open palms. The young men froze, above them rose the pyramid. Its glory shone like the sun through the rain, rising like diamond from the mountain. The eye of the mountain. The chief stepped forward and ran his hands across the grooves like tree veins that cut the eye. He bent his forehead and it met the pitted stone softly, like the moss. He beckoned his hand forward without turning. Gnost, the holy man, hobbled forward on one clubbed foot. His face hidden behind a hood and wraps of cloth. It was forbidden to look upon a holy man, Qyrth knew, but he could not help wondering. He dared not move, he wished to stop breathing as Gnost made his way to the chief, rain pattering on his black cloak. As Qyrth watched, Gnost drew pink, fertile soil from within his folds and held it to the rain, turning it dripping. With a cry that echoed across the mountaintop, he bent forward, and, moving his hands across the stone, began to rub the pink mud into the eye. He mumbled and swayed as he painted across the sacred stone. Qyrth allowed his fingers to twitch ever so slightly across the face of his shiha, the cold wet blade comforting to the touch. He knew he should be flogged for his irreverence, and he cursed himself by the gods. Gnost threw back his arms and yowled like a mountain cat, making Qyrth start and jump. Chief Khemmer joined the howl and soon all the men threw their voices to the sky together. The chief ceased yelling and all his cohort followed. "It is done," He spoke reverently, and nodded to Gnost, still standing separate from the group, as was his way. "We have pleased the gods, may they continue to weep upon us." The assembled nodded and whispered words of affirmation. "Set up the ghun, let us sit," Qyrth and the others hastened to obey, and unfurled their sections of canopy quickly. Each man was made to carry a piece of the canopy, and the strongest among them was given the honor of carrying the frame. They finished, and Gnost stepped forward to bless the meeting place. As a place where the gods' tears did not fall, it must be blessed to allow gathering. "Let us make a fire," the chief said contentedly once all knelt. It was done, and the gathering parted as the holy man shuffled towards the flame. Pale hands emerged from the cloak, carrying the needle, which was thrust into the flame. Realizing what was happening, Qyrth bent his head and thanked the gods. One by one, Gnost stooped to each man, carved a word into the side of their head. Qyrth often wondered what they said, though it was forbidden to know his own or to read another man's. He hardly flinched as the hot needle touched his head, for it was an honor that would be revoked if pain was shown. "May the gods weep upon you," Gnost rasped through his coverings, and words of thanks were murmured by all. Wordlessly, the gathering dispersed and dismantled the ghun, replacing their sections at their hips beside their weapons, scarred faces impassive, and began their journey back down the mountain's wizened face.

Chapter 2 – Circilus

Circilus awoke abruptly and threw himself forward, gripping his bedpost in pain. His eyes clenched as he hugged his torso and groaned. Two days earlier, he had been gored by one of the praetor's royal boars, during a hunting mishap. The apothecary had sewn his gaping side together and made her dog lick the wound. She had assured him it would heal now, but it was excruciating to say the least. He had been relieved of duty while his side mended, and was now staying in his father's east villa until he regained his strength. His eyes gradually adjusted to the dark sleep-room and he made his way to the door, gritting his teeth through the pain. He sat on the balcony for a while, staring out over the sleeping city. The Shore Gem, they called it, looking out over a magnificent lagoon it was a place of both labor and luxury. His family's villa was in the famed white district, which sat upon the glittering shores of the lagoon, watching the first trade ships pull in bringing every kind imaginable. Gripping his cane in his left hand and his side with his right, he pulled himself from the balcony seat and hobbled back into the house. He had been foregoing bathing for the late days, as the mere touch of water on his wound made it burn like wildfire, but rubbed himself down with a damp cloth to keep his stench at bay, preferring to do it himself rather than risk a servant's rough hand. Wrapping himself in a hooded cloak unbefitting of his rank he exited the house through the back door and lurched through the twilight streets until he left the safety of the white district and entered the common folk's dwelling, the brown district. He had been coming to this region for a year now, ignoring his father's behest, finding its many crowded alleys and markets intriguing. Now he knew his destination, and made his way as swiftly as possible through the muddy ilk that soiled his boots. Above, brightly colored banners had been hung from the commoners' windows, marking Autumnfast, a holiday of much feasting and drinking. The banners seemed almost melancholy, a single point of happiness in the surrounding drab. Circilus ducked his head down to a passerby, no need for conflict in his state, as a noble, he would most likely be mobbed if found in the brown district. He arrived at his destination, a small shack joined to the mud apartment buildings to its left and right. Above the door, a wooden sign hung swaying and creaking slightly, carved into it was the image of a single eye, cupped in an outstretched hand. A dangerous symbol. Circilus took a breath, wincing, and pushed through the swinging door. Smoke curled around the room like flying snakes, reddening Circilus's eyes and making him cough, nearly bursting his side. Nevertheless, he eagerly pushed onward past jars and cabinets of unspeakable merchandise. "Mmmmh," a hoarse murmur issued from what appeared to be a pile of cloth in a corner. "Circilus, you are early. What time is it?" The pile raised its head and revealed itself to be an old woman, face faintly visible behind a mask of wrinkles and tangled white hair. The woman had no eyes, gouged out on account of her ancestry when she had arrived in the city, but she did not need them, now less than ever. "Midrise, Helmirgh. Late enough I'd say," Circilus exaggerated the time, as he did not care to wait for Helmirgh to rise, as she would surely make him do if she had known the real time. "Ah, I am getting old," she muttered. Circilus wondered if she was truly just now noticing but held his tongue. "Come here then, if you wish to watch," Helmirgh rasped as she rose and made her stooped way over to her workspace, a rough circle of glass bottles and wood boxes, strewn haphazardly about. Circilus removed his hood and followed behind her, crouching under the low ceiling. Helmirgh snatched up a nearby candle and thrust it into Circilus's hands, "light this and throw the blue powder on the flame," She said, preoccupied. Circilus looked about and found several containers holding blueish powder and looked back at the hag confusedly. "The _light_ blue powder you sh'arve," Helmirgh snapped and swore at him. Hesitantly, he selected the bottle containing the lightest colored powder and lit the half melted candle in Helmirgh's oil lamp. Uncorking the bottle, he made to pour some powder into his hand, "and _don't_ touch it with your bare hands, if you fancy leaving them attached to your body," came another touchy snap from the old woman busily stirring a bowl of water with her claw-like fingernails. Circilus stopped, slightly irritated, poured the powder into a nearby table, and scraped it into the flame with the end of his cane. With a hiss like a mad cat, the candle sputtered and turned a burnt green color. He brought the candle over to Helmirgh gingerly, as the flame had grown very hot, and set it beside her. "How old are you now, boy?" The old woman asked without moving from her bowl. "Still a boy in your eyes I suppose," Circilus retorted. A slew of curses followed as well as a berating about his "incessant and insufferable wit", "Seventeen this turning," he said afterward, somewhat timidly. Helmirgh was, to understate it, not a morning bird. "Mmh," she grunted, seeming somehow unsatisfied, but spoke no more. A few moments of silence and the hag waved a hand, beckoning the boy to the bowl. He bent over her shoulder to gaze into it. She pointed at the swirling water, "You see, this is the world of the spirits, where they live when we do not pester them with our entreaties," Circilus looked deep into the swirling water but saw nothing, save it were the leaf fragments Helmirgh had grumbled into the bowl. "I do not see," he said, "I see only the water." "Bah! That is because you have no focus, no concentration!" Helmirgh turned and seized him by his collar, pulling him close to her emaciated face, she tapped his forehead with a long nail "look with this, not with _these_ " she jabbed two fingers towards his eyes and released him. He did not understand, and said so. "Go then, and take your narrow thoughts with you," Helmirgh grumbled. "I will be back tomorrow," Circilus said and ducked under a rack of hanging jars, heading to the door. "You will not, not from what I saw in the smoke," she mumbled as he left, he payed no attention, the old woman had always talked about her visions but not once had they ever held any merit.

Circilus exited the hut and emerged to find that he had been inside for much longer than it had seemed, and the streets were now crowded with commoners going about their business. He began his painful walk back to the villa, but was grudgingly aware of a trio of ragged commoners tailing him through the throng, though he tried to deny it. He took a detour down a back alley, walls black and moldy with age, and looped back around to face his pursuers. He stopped them with his hood up, concealing his face, which, being fairly clean, might have served to give his identity away. One, the leader it seemed, was missing an eye, and covered his socket with a filthy rag tied around his face, whether by penalty or accident, Circilus couldn't be sure. The other two were completely forgettable, ragged brown hair, grizzled faces, standard street folk. One-eye smiled with all the charm of a river eel, "What do you call yourself?" He asked in a surprisingly smooth voice, turning the vowels over in a foreign accent, perhaps from the deserts to the west. "Sackin, I am a priest in the opal monastery." Circilus replied, he had invented this fake person years ago. The priest ruse worked with his brown cloak and short hair, and usually worked to put curious commoners off. The three urchins chuckled mockingly. "Is that so? That is a fine piece of jewelry for a priest," One-eye said beguilingly, "pray, how did you come by it?" he drew a bone dagger out of his belt and toyed with the blade. Circilus bit his lip and cursed under his breath. He'd slept in his token gold medallion and forgotten to remove it. "You know, we _were_ just going to take that trinket and leave you, but now, with that load of dung priest story, it seems to me you're some rich sot who doesn't know how to hide his jewels properly." The two brown haired commoners drew weapons from concealed pockets, one a hooked blade that looked vaguely like something a river man would use to gut fish, the other a small ax that looked to be stolen from some mountain tribe. "Now, hand it over." One-eye held out his hand. Circilus gripped his staff tightly, making as if to remove the necklace from his head. Quickly, like a mantis lashing out, Circilus turned the top of his cane once, with a click, the mechanism unlocked, and he pulled the concealed rapier out dramatically, gritting through the pain it caused him. Not giving One-eye time to think, Circilus swiped down onto his wrist, taking off his reaching hand and evoking a scream for the ages. One-eye fell to the ground and rolled around wailing, clutching his stump. His two consorts looked wary, but advanced with their blades out. Circilus dodged a slash from Fish hook, turned and cut the tendons behind his knees, forcing him to the ground, and spun to face his companion. Ax man was nowhere to be seen, no doubt he was halfway to the sea by now. Circilus replaced his blade into his hollow cane, ignoring the shallow trickle of blood staining the side of his shirt, bent to the whimpering One-eye, now one-hand, and dropped the medallion in front of his nose, "there you are, may it serve you well."

Back at the villa, Circilus arrived to find his father waiting, bow legged, in the corridor, his perpetual look of disapproval on his face. His father was never happy, not in terms of holdings, status, or personal life, god forbid. He stood imposing, although a man of nearly sixty years, he was strong as an ox, tall as an oak, had every one of his teeth, and wore his gray hair long down his back. Mertomus looked upon his son with disgust. "Take off that filthy cloak. You look like a vagabond." He barked at the ungrateful whelp, "where have you been? With the witch again? Ah! You have! No, do not deny what is clear to my eyes." Circilus handed off the cloak to a nearby servant and turned to face his father musingly, "she does not appreciate the term 'witch'," He said, smirking, knowing it would rub his father the wrong way. "The hell with what she _appreciates_ , the sh'arve!" Mertomus roared, "I begin to think you got yourself gored on purpose just to learn more of her ways! That's it, you did! Those boars are so fat they can hardly roll over let alone run down off duty guards on a hunting party!" Mertomus was fuming now, his face red behind his beard. "I will see to it you are back on duty before the week is up! I don't care if you tear your side apart and the crows get a taste of your guts!" He seized one of his attendants by her scruff and yelled in her face, "Message to praetor Jonst! My son will be able to resume work as soon as befits his Excellency!" This got Circilus's attention, he could barely walk let alone ride in full armor. "I don't believe praetor Jonst, who sets guards upon his attendants for not chewing properly, will appreciate a guard who cannot so much as lift his sword!" He threw back, "Add this!" Mertomus barked to the servant, still standing like iron for fear of her dangerous master in such a mood, "any failure or unsatisfactory effort will be counted on my son's head!" The servant nodded and squirmed. Circilus stamped his staff, defeated. "What must I do?" He questioned grudgingly. "For one, there will be no more of these early morning gallivants. For another, you will cooperate in finding a betrothal." Mertomus replied, raising his bushy eyebrows. He was seeing how far his son could be pushed before his leverage wore thin. Circilus nodded, "very well," he hung his head in mock defeat. Mertomus squinted down at his son's blonde crew cut, it was not like him to give up so easily. "Very well," he said tentatively, "you are dismissed." He did not catch the smirk Circilus showed as he trudged away.

Chapter 3 – Qyrth

The village resided on a flat piece of land that only slightly jutted from the mountainside like a broken tooth. Tiny streams ran like tears throughout its small resting place, and above, in the forests, endless game made its home. Indeed, the village was the envy of all the mountain tribes. Only the fear of its chief kept rivals at bay. Qyrth was glad to be home. The climb had made him weary, though he would never admit it, and he gladly entered into the family ghun. "Hello?" He questioned, not always was someone present. His sister, Khine, brushed through the adjoining room and rushed to greet him. She clutched his head and looked over his new tattoo, "ah! What did you do? It says…" "No!" Qyrth interrupted loudly. Men were forbidden to read tattoos, but women were afforded certain privileges, which Khine never tired of flaunting. "We blessed the eye, that is all." He said, suddenly wishing for the harsh climb again. "That is _all_?" Khine's husband, Urikk, emerged from the other room, hastily pulling his boots back on. Qyrth slapped his forehead, irritated. Urikk was of another tribe, an exile, who had come to the village half eaten by vultures, Khine had been the only one to show any interest, and one thing led to another. "To climb the summit in the company of Khemmer Ab Arur, before you are yet eighteen, a great honor!" Qyrth had never masked his distaste for Urikk, his foreign tattoos and lack of scars made him considered less than honorable in the tribe, and Qyrth did not like being associated. Yet Urikk had never seemed to care, and had shown an incredible affinity for the young boy, no matter how he rebuffed his uncle. Qyrth left the two alone and returned to the rain. He entered into the nearby Ghun-Eru, the central gathering place of the village, where some were always present. Within, he joined a gathering of people, among them was Tirithi, a young woman who, it was no secret, he would wed when he came of age. But until then, their contact was limited. Tirithi was very beautiful, still, Qyrth found little satisfaction in the ways his father arranged, though he followed every one obediently. Qyrth knelt beside Immet, his younger brother and closest companion. Tirithi caught his eye and he looked away. "Why do you shun her so, brother?" Immet asked quietly, "She is quite beautiful, you are lucky." Qyrth shut his eyes and breathed in the wood smoke deeply. "In truth, I do not know. Perhaps, if father had not had his hand in it, things could be different." He replied, contemplating. The keeper of the Ghun-Eru began a chant, signaling time of meditation. A slave carried around a bowl of tulla root. Qyrth took, and chewed intently, breathing in the husky smoke from the center fire. The chant was long and intense, and mingled with the sounds of the gods' tears on the roof. Suddenly, a thudding and pounding of the ground came from without the Ghun, the keeper stopped the chant and bid everyone go outside to see. The entire village had emerged, some held their spears and shihas. From the path below, five pale-eyed men rose, riding upon their great beasts. They were clothed in their metal suits, and clanked like rock falls as they moved. One dismounted, and walked forward with the air of authority. The crowd parted as the Chief Fallen pushed his way through to face the pale-eyed man, whose face was hidden behind a metal helmet. The man spoke, and all were surprised to find that he spoke their language. "I am Jonst, of Baiae, I come to collect what you owe." Khemmer seemed taken aback and growled at the shining man, "we owe you nothing. You will leave, or I will take your head as a trophy." Jonst, hearing this, calmly drew his blade and ran it through the chief's chest. The village exploded into chaos as the chief's body dropped to the ground. Children screamed, some fainted, twenty warriors rushed the foreign men, but the leader had already mounted his beast, "Fifty pounds of gold and silver within a week, I know you have it. Or else the same fate will befall you all." He jabbed his hand at the lifeless body to make his point, turned and rode back down the mountainside.

Chapter 4 – Ophios

Of course it was happening again, I didn't know how long it'd been, as there is no real concept of time in the Other Place, but then again, it had to happen. The last time I'd been summoned, my master was so exuberated by my success in finding him that accursed stone, he smudged his pentacle with a toe, and allowed me to escape. Any other, less clever djinn would have devoured the magician on the spot, but I used the time before by automatic dismissal to thoroughly demolish his reference library, including a good deal of books with my name in them. Not a bad move if I do say so myself, as it kept me in the Other Place for a long while. I emerged into the earth begrudgingly, wondering what magician's foot I'd be kissing this time. I found myself in the tiniest pentacle since the creation of man. I had to ditch my original idea of appearing as a ferocious human headed dragon for a grumpy looking dwarf, the maximum capacity for the cramped space. The pentacle at first seemed to be drawn from feces, but upon closer inspection it was only mud, quite a relief, but still a bit of a step down from the opal and gold pentacles of the various kings I'd served in the past. The dwarf folded its stumpy arms indignantly and stared across at its new master, a wrinkly old eyeless hag that looked to be older than me, give or take a few thousand years. I opened my mouth to speak and was promptly riddled with the Infernal Coals, which shut me up good. Unlike some djinn, I'm not above kowtowing to avoid punishment. I once knew a fellow who talked his essence off so much, he ended up on a quest to kill old Solomon, and mind you, this was back when he had the Ring, so that must've been a party. I rubbed my singed essence down and glared back at the old hag. I noticed her pentacle was a good deal larger than mine, and a young lad stood with her inside it. Typical of magicians to give themselves the good stuff. "Mind me asking where I am?" I said with just a touch of spite, "Baiae, Italy, the pride of the Roman empire." This was the young man speaking, and the old woman promptly backhanded him "I told you not to talk to it you sh'arve!" I was surprised to hear the old Sumerian curse thrown around so casually, but I also appreciated the old lady's affinity for discipline, I just hoped she didn't see fit to use it on me. "Ah, I see," I said contemplatively, fingering my beard. "And might I ask your name, oh master?" I tried doubtfully, "Do I look like I was born _yesterday_?" She spat, "no." Another round of the Coals. Last time I'd been on earth, Rome was just a collection of mud huts and a stick wall, but I'd heard rumors it had become an empire. I looked around the room for the first time, it seemed to be some kind of shack with bottles and candles and such lying all about. Definitely a magician's lair. "I've heard magic is strictly for priests in Rome," the dwarf said in mock wonder, "you two must be doing it _illegally_ then," he continued, raising his bushy eyebrows. "How _dare_ you, demon!" the hag barked, and I received yet another dose of the Infernal Coals. Gods, did she know any _other_ spells? "You are not to reveal anything of our location or identity!" She shrieked. She probably thought she was clever, but in truth I'd known nothing about the legality of magic in Rome, but now I did. And for another thing, there were about ten loopholes in that order that I could count. I was obviously dealing with a blowhard summoning way out of her league, it was a wonder she had said the incantations correctly. The dwarf nodded, smirking, "So what have you got for me?" I rubbed my hands together, "build a wall? Purpose of life? What?" "I want you to kill my father," the young man said quickly, and received another slap, to my satisfaction. "Yes," the hag said, glaring at her companion, "Mertomus Philophus, a roman aristocrat, quite distasteful. You'll find him in his villa on the coast, or just ask around, he's quite famous." The youth smiled and the old woman waved a hand, "and if you fail, it will be the Dismal Flame and possibly an essence cage for you. Go now." Well, at least my next go around wouldn't be dull.

Chapter 5 – Circilus

Circilus had removed himself from the villa at night, when his father was asleep, and swiftly gone to visit Helmirgh to explain his predicament. She had acted uppity about it and gloated, but in the end she removed a dusty book from under a pile of glass bottles and turned it open. Circilus bent over and examined the pictures and text in the book, written in a foreign language he could not read. Helmirgh then explained about the different classifications of spirit, each one's strengths and weaknesses. Some of which he already knew, as magic was not unheard of in Rome, priests of Apollo sometimes practiced it. "Hmm," Helmirgh said, turning a crackly page, "We will summon a powerful spirit, a class five djinni, or something of the like," Circilus shifted his weight on his cane, "why not summon a very powerful spirit, a marid, or afrit?" "Because I am bloody well not powerful enough!" Helmirgh snapped back at him touchily. "The sh'arve demon would tear both our podex apart and then burn the entire city to the ground!" Eventually they settled on a demon called Ophios, who had a somewhat illustrious past, though not so much as some other demons they looked over. The book mentioned he had a "manageable temperament", which was most of the reason why they decided on him. The book referred to him Ophios of Varanasi, and Helmirgh used this formal title in the summoning, as apparently it gave it a bit more power. The old woman had dragged him into a mud circle drawn on the floor with a five pointed star inscribed into it, and threatened him profusely should he leave it. The summoning went on for about five minutes, as Helmirgh chanted in a strange language, saying the demon's name over and over again. When she stopped, smoke filled the room, accompanied by a strange disembodied yowling that made Circilus quiver, though Helmirgh barked at him to stop it, it was just the demon blustering. Then a puff, and the smoke withdrew into the pentacle, lingered a few seconds, as if indecisive, and finally a hairy little man had appeared, looking displeased and ornery. Helmirgh had explained that she kept the other pentacle small to keep the demon's appearances docile, but nevertheless, Circilus found this a bit anticlimactic.

Chapter 6 – Ophios

I spent my first few hours in Baiae cruising above the city as a gull, getting a feel for the place. It was beautiful, in earth terms of course. I could see why Rome's best and shiniest made it their favorite vacation spot. At least the part on the actual bay, the outskirts were much seedier. I decided to try the poorer parts first, as people there are usually more willing to talk to random sots/spirits in disguise. The gull dove down to land on a thin ceramic roof, scaring a couple cats away, as I had only bothered to become a gull on the first plane, and on several lower ones I was a spiny mantis-looking creature. I just hoped no numb nuts magician was looking though his Egyptian Spyglass at the moment. The gull hopped and fluttered down to the ground, ducked into a nearby alley and changed into a sallow Indian man with a shaved head and scraggly beard like a sage bush, who could have been a devout Hindu if he'd been seen bathing in a river. I had clothed the Indian in a toga to make him blend in more. I would have made my guise more discrete, but for some reason I couldn't really imitate the roman look that well. In any case, I imagined Indians weren't _completely_ unheard of in this part of the world. The Indian emerged from behind the alley and entered the throng of people. I began asking around in Greek (I'd not spent enough time in Rome to have learned Latin. I am not all powerful, despite appearances), and got several blank stares before a tan man that looked like he was probably _from_ Greece grinned and began jabbering away at me, happy to be speaking his native tongue. The Indian raised a hand and cut him off, "I am looking for Mertomus Philophus," I said in my inevitable staccato accent, "can you tell me where he lives?" The Greek seemed quite confused at my appearance and accent, and looked me up and down, but then smiled again, "A foreigner yes? Myself as well, always happy to help a fellow outsider. You may find Philophus in the white district, in his villa, or at the central baths at around midset." He kept on grinning as I pulled him back into the alley by his arm and devoured him, sandals and all. Regretful, but my essence was tired from all those bouts of the Coals, and I had to tie loose ends. He tasted fine, a nice spicy Greek flavor. Feeling newly refreshed, a somewhat obese gull wobbled up above the rooftops and soared over the city, heading to the lagoon.

It turned out, Roman aristocrats are incredibly hard to kill. Even for a djinni of my talents, the task was daunting. For one, Philophus was never alone, he constantly had an entourage of servants and colleagues following his every footstep. For another, there must have been more magical talent in Rome than outwardly appeared, because it seemed to be the latest fashion to cloak oneself in wards and iron talismans. In fact, you could easily pick out the rich ones simply by checking a few higher planes, because they shone like stars with all the spells woven about their bodies. Just getting close to the group of politicians hurt my essence because of all the cursed iron they had on them. Philophus practically had it shoved up his podex. Luckily all his servants seemed to check out on all seven planes, so I wouldn't be dealing with any alarm sounding imps or foliots. Actually, that was a bit of a shame, as I was beginning to grow hungry again. I followed him about in the shape of a tiny gnat for the whole day, then came to the conclusion that the only way to get the job done was to pounce on him while he was asleep; alone and, hopefully, iron free. I was beginning to get tired of this. Historically, I'd been much more tolerant of being summoned than the vast majority of djinn. The earth fascinated me, and it interested me the way the more regal missions I completed turned into legend. That's not to say I _liked_ it. Not at all, but I was a bit more inclined to obedience than other spirits. But now my patience was wearing thin, the useless missions I'd been sent on! "Ophios, could you just make a quick henge out of these giant rocks? Oh, Ophios, would you mind building a royal retreat for the emperor in the Peruvian mountains? That's a _great_ idea!" I was becoming quite sick of it. Any more and I'd be showing them what a _manageable temperament_ was.

The old Scot strode up to the door of the enormous villa and considered it. I still hadn't mastered the Roman look, so I'd gone as close as I could. An oversized gold orb was inlaid into the marble door, and upon inspection on planes 3 and 4, it glowed faintly like a firefly. With a crack, a floating blue monkey appeared in front of me and pulled a face like it had swallowed a Chinese firecracker. The Scot promptly raised a meaty hand and flicked the foliot into the door, face first. "Ow!" It exclaimed angrily. "I know that's you, Ophios, I'm not an impling! You might think about changing from that mantis thing on plane 4!" I rolled my eyes at this advice. He should have seen what I was on plane 6. Oh wait, he couldn't, because he was an incompetent dolt. "Hello Meroa, you're looking damp as ever." I spat in anger. This foliot had been inexplicably showing up around me for nearly four thousand years now, and every time I saw him he narrowly escaped my clutches. He even managed to singe me with a pitiful Detonation last time I saw him in Thebes, to my eternal irritation. "What could you _possibly_ be doing in that doorknob?" I asked acidly, grinning from ear to ear. "Guarding this house from _you_ that's what!" He puffed out his tiny chest, oblivious to what was coming for him. I held up a hand and allowed a Detonation to leak into the palm, flames dancing like the wind across my fingers. "You recall that time in Thebes, Meroa?" The Scot regarded his hand pointedly. Meroa's blue monkey face blanched, "Now now, Ophios, no need to be rash. Why don't I just open the doors for you?" He groveled to my amusement. Nothing better than a good groveling. "You and I both know you can't do that, and even if you could, I wouldn't want you to." I gloated, playing around with my Detonation. All of a sudden, I was hit with an Essence Lance from behind. I winced, turned around and pulverized the skinny magician who had rushed me. "Sound the alarm will you…" I began, glaring at the pile of ash that had just been the magician, but was interrupted by tiny "Ha-Has" from behind me. As I turned, I just caught sight of Meroa's impudent face fading away across the planes. I cursed myself by all the gods and took my anger out on the door by silently smashing it to pieces with a Flux. Of course that magician had to be his master, now the little whelp would be showing up somewhere else to pester me yet again. The Scot stepped over the shards of broken door, feet crunching on marble powder. I checked all the planes, and no other alarms seemed to have been activated, nevertheless, I trod carefully. I glanced around the glamorous mansion and quickly changed shape, becoming a small cobra, merely a foot long. I wasn't quite sure if they had cobras in this part of the world, in which, it was becoming apparent to me, I was quite out of my element. In any case, it would be hard to blame a smashed ten foot door on a tiny snake. The cobra slithered along the lavish tiles of the villa and wondered where a Roman would have his sleeping quarters. It would have been nice of my masters to have given me a little information to go on besides a name. The cobra bumped its head on a flight stairs, as it wasn't really paying attention, and hissed in agitation, fanning its hood just for the fun. It reared its head back to get a better look at the flight, and hissed again. This was a problem. Snakes, generally speaking, are not proficient at climbing stairs, and I would have preferred to change guises as few times as possible, just in case anyone was spying on me. A bit of lack of foresight on my part here. Glancing around and flicking my forked tongue coyly, I discretely grew a pair of feathery wings and fluttered up the staircase, looking like some creature in a Chinese mural. The cobra dropped ungracefully to the upper floor in ropey coils, and I got rid of the wings. Just to my left, there lay a pair of gargantuan doors, looking quite important, and I slithered over to them and under the crack in the door. I instantly felt a profuse zap in my essence, and I made my way under a huge cabinet to cower, startled. That ward was obviously targeted toward far weaker spirits, but I was on edge, and it had certainly given me a start. Unfortunately, it also woke up the sleeper in the immense silk bed, who I could only assume was Philophus. He jumped out of his bed with his hair all disheveled and looked about the room squinting. I decided to go for it and let a good deal of smoke billow out from under the dresser, accompanied by my signature disembodied yowling, and emerged from underneath the dresser in the guise of an image of Kali, the Hindu goddess of destruction, quite terrifying to say the least. After a few moments of watching the Romans mouth hang open, I grew tired of watching him stand there stupefied, without even a scream, so I raised one of my four arms and hit him with a Spasm that should have thoroughly demolished any human. The force was enough to knock him back onto the bed with a less than satisfying grunt, but the Spasm just hung about him like a cloud, as if indecisive. Then, to my astonishment, it swirled around like a whirlpool and disappeared into a small obsidian amulet hanging around his neck. The politician smirked and untangled himself from his bed, "you think this is my first time dealing with demons? I know better." He fingered his amulet and held it up for me to see, "you know where I got this?" He dangled it mockingly in front of my blue skinned face, "A magician of a city called Samarkand, of no little renown, makes them. But it is said he wears one much, much more powerf…" He was silenced here because I had transformed into a sixteen foot long Burmese python, and was simply crushing him to death. A bit inelegant, but in the absence of magic it was all I could come up with. "Next time you might think to keep your iron jewelry on in bed." I hissed to his bug eyed face and unhinged my jaw.

Chapter 7 – Qyrth

The tribe was in outrage. Fellow tribesmen from other villages had begun arriving, in full war attire, calling for the blood of the people of the white village. Chief Khemmer's funeral saw more mountain people gathered than had been in lifetimes. Qyrth bent his head as Gnost closed the chief's eyes and lowered him into the flames of the funerary fire. "May he be accepted at the summit of the world," the holy man murmured solemnly. The crackle of the fire echoed across the camp.

The Ghun-Eru was not meant to be loud. It was meant as a place of silent meditation and gathering, but it at that moment it sounded as if a rockslide had begun. Men yelled at the top of their lungs for the blood of one group or another, or professed that they should be declared chief in Khemmer's stead. The keeper of the Ghun-Eru cowered in a corner, and Gnost had returned to his hut in the woods outside the village, thus there was no one to silence the bickering mob. Qyrth was present, but personally had no preference on how things transpired, as long as he did not end up serving Urikk, who, strangely enough, had gotten into a shouting match with a foreign chief who had come for the funeral and was campaigning to be given the village lands. He and Immet lingered on the outskirts of the crowded Ghun, watching in amusement as two cattle sized men went for each other's throats. Suddenly there was a resounding thud, a wooden rod hitting the ground, and instantly the crowd was silenced. The men dispersed and Qyrth caught a view of the center of the Ghun. An old man stood in the median of the room. His braids were snow white and long as mountain cat tails, his tattoos completely covered his neck and disappeared below his bear skin robe, and despite his age he stood taller than most in the room, commanding respect. He held in his left hand a long wooden staff, the pommel carved into the head of a snarling bear chasing a raven down the length, and he gripped it with confidence and power. Reverent whispers from the men nearest to him told Qyrth of the old man's identity. He caught his breath and froze. Charron the Bear. A legend. Years ago, his wife and infant son had been stolen away by a starving mountain cat, dragged away into the slope forests where no man returns. Charron followed the cat with nothing but his bare hands. He found the cat's den strewn with the bones of his wife, and his son mewling in the corner as the cat stalked him. Fables told of how Charron had torn out the cat's throat with his teeth, or crushed its skull in his hands, and now wore its remains for his boots. After the incident, he retreated into the forests alone, leaving the infant in the care of his brother, since dead, and had not been seen since. Now he must have been upset at word of his son's murder. Charron looked around the Ghun in distaste, spat on the earthen floor, "my son has been murdered!" He suddenly yelled at the congregation, now enraged. "And yet you lot stand here, squabbling like children over who has the better boots! You," he hissed angrily, pointing at a minor chieftain, "come here." The man obliged, shaking like a wet dog. "You want these lands, yes?" The chieftain stammered and shook his head. Charron spat again and seized the chieftain by his neck, lifting him into the air, his feet hung a foot above the ground. "Do you still want them?" Charron said bitterly. The hanging man sputtered and clutched at his neck. Charron dropped him casually and he fell in a heap, gasping like a landed fish. Charron looked about the room burningly. "We must give the pale-eyes men a message. They want gold. We will bring them a gift much more precious."

Chapter 8 – Gnost

Gnost had retired to his home shortly after completing the funeral rites, he did not care to participate in the argument that would surely ensue. He sat cross legged on his floor and began removing his bandage-like coverings from his face. Underneath he appeared surprisingly standard looking for a tribesman, black hair, black eyes, slightly olive skin, a bony, triangular face. But he was anything but ordinary. He lit a candle and smoked some incense for a while, contemplating what would come next. Decisively, he reached for his scrying glass, a smooth rock he had polished for the occasion. He muttered a rudimentary incantation and the spirit trapped within appeared. "See what goes about in the Ghun-Eru." He whispered to it. The minor spirit nodded timidly and disappeared. Gnost kept his slaves in tight form. Shortly, an image of the interior of the Ghun appeared. An old man stood in the center of the room, berating the gathered warriors. Gnost frowned. He had not been aware Charron the Bear was present. He would discipline his slaves later. The old man seized an attendant by the throat and lifted him in the air. Gnost smiled, amused, he loved that trick. Charron dropped the man and then seemed to be ordering people about. " _Closer_ ," Gnost hissed at his spirit, as he could not hear clearly, but received no results. A good Stretching for that impudent one, he decided. It would have to wait, as the men had begun filing out of the Ghun, following Charron. "Follow them," Gnost ordered, and the spirit liltingly pursued the crowd out the door and towards the forest. Gnost was interrupted by the appearance of another of his slaves, and set the scryglass down, turning to face the spirit, who had taken the shape of a shadowy figure with no face. "Master," it said, bowing, "a large group of men approaches your home. Rksos is dealing with them." Gnost nodded contemplatively, "inform him not to harm them and to let them pass shortly." The spirit bowed and was gone. Gnost frowned and began reapplying his coverings.

Charron took only a handful of men with him into the forest, hiking up the steep slopes at night was challenging, but they were used to it. Charron remembered this path from his younger days, chasing game through the brush. In the distance, the dim light of the holy man's hut glinted. Charron picked up his pace, seeing his destination, and nearly fell backwards into his men. Ahead, a dark shape materialized. It seemed to be woven of pure shadow, and slanted red eyes glared from the shape where its head would have been. A slash that may have been a mouth opened, revealing needle like teeth dripping with fluid, "who approaches?" the thing hissed, seeming to rise even taller. To say Charron was frightened would be a gross understatement, but he had long since learned to mask his fear quite well, and he showed none of it to the figure. "I am Charron, sire to Khemmer. I seek the counsel of Gnost the holy man." He said truthfully, hoping to placate the dark shape. It seemed to have the opposite effect, and the thing bent and coiled along the ground, trying to creep behind Charron, who, it must be said, began to quake. It was stopped by the appearance of another shadowy figure, this one softer, as if cloaked in a robe of gray, which held out its hand and spoke in an unknown language. The red eyed creature stopped and fell back, hissing at its companion contemptuously. The robed figure shook its head and faded away again, leaving the cohort with the red eyed creature yet again. "You may see Gnost shortly," it whispered in a voice like fire. "A shame too. I was quite hungry." It added later, eyeing the men regretfully.

Gnost had closed his eyes, and opened them to the sound of his door being opened. Through the holes cut in his coverings he could make out Charron and at least four others crowding his living space. "Greetings, chief." Gnost said softly as Charron advanced. He did not rise from his sitting position. "I am no _chief_ ," Charron growled at him and leaned on his staff. "Would the man you strangled agree, I wonder?" Gnost speculated, meeting the old man's glare. Charron looked surprised, then angry, "how _dare_ you!" He exclaimed and moved towards the sitting man. Gnost snapped his fingers and both shadows appeared behind him, slightly transparent in the candlelight. Charron stopped abruptly. "What is it you want, chief?" Gnost asked, smiling under his wrappings.

The procedure was not easy. Gnost had never attempted anything like this before and worded his summonings very carefully. Simply finding a fitting demon was a task, and finding three of the correct strength was harder still with his limited library. His words looped over themselves like a pit of snakes during the summoning, clause after clause, leaving nothing to chance. Even with the profuse bindings, he had to Stipple the first spirit a bit to get it to enter the box. The second contract he composed was harsher still, and the demon reluctantly entered its box without complaint. The third was eloquent and profuse, and left no room for excuse, which Gnost was quite proud of.

Chapter 9 – Circilus

Circilus felt like an oyster in an oven. Unfortunately his father had gotten wind of his latest escapade, and again, was waiting for him to return. From the color of his face and the wild look in his eye, Mertomus finally seemed to have snapped. After a profuse and drawn out bout of yelling, Circilus was sent to resume duty. To add a dose of salt to the wound, Circilus had been forced to take the pre-rise shift and had been dragged from bed to go guard the streets in the wee hours of the morning. He had volunteered to stay on duty, not wishing to return home to his apoplectic father, and was now regretting it. The midday sun beat down upon Circilus's black lacquered armor, effectively cooking him. Sweat ran down into his eyes and he felt as if he might faint from heat and the pain of his armor straps digging into his side. He had removed his helmet and held it under his arm, yet the burning sunlight still aggravated him. He and about thirty other young guards had been posted on the streets for the return of praetor Jonst from his campaigns in the mountains. Everyone was speculating in their minds what he would return with. Gold? Slaves? Exotic spices? All had been brought back from the praetors many assaults on the various mountain tribes, and he distributed them to his closest friends and political allies. Seeing as how he had become quite close to the praetor, and indeed had been mauled on a hunting trip with him, Circilus was hoping to be cut in on the spoils. The clanking of horse armor heralded the coming of the praetor. He rode into the city triumphantly, the banners of Baiae emblazoned on his horse's leather flank covers. Behind him rode his ten elite. All he ever took on his campaigns were ten specially chosen men, as he believed it sent a message to destroy a village with so few. The praetor reined his horse as he approached the center of the street and waved to the gathered people. Raucous applause greeted him, and he smiled, basking in it. He held up a hand to silence the cheering, and was immediately heeded. It was unlikely he would have to participate in combat, the people loved their praetor so, but Circilus eyed the crowd suspiciously nonetheless, gripping his sword hilt in one hand and his helmet in the other. Jonst opened his mouth to speak, and Baiae seemed to lean in to listen. "Twenty pounds of gold," he shouted to the ranks, "will be delivered within the week!" The crowd applauded again, though somewhat underwhelmed. This was by no means the largest haul Jonst had returned with, and not even present yet. Jonst continued his ride down the road, waving to the people as he went. Circilus swiped his hand across his forehead, relieved. Jonst had left for the mountains yesterday, so obviously he had not met with much opposition if he was returning today, still, the praetor had seemed somehow less triumphant than he usually was in his returns, almost uneasy. Something was off. Circilus thought of returning home, but recalled mission he had sent the demon on and decided to remain on duty, better not to raise suspicion by showing up soon after the deed had been done.

Chapter 10 – Ophios

I danced around the room in the shape of a long winded orangutan, swinging from the hanging chandeliers on my long, lanky arms, trying to avoid the angry aristocrat, while simultaneously attempting to get ahold of him. While I was suffocating him, I had neglected to get my coils around his arms in true python style, and left them flailing around. I practically had his head in my mouth when he somehow got hold of a nearby silver dagger and stuck me with it, forcing me to release him. I would almost have preferred iron, silver is much worse. I had transformed into a weasel and bit him hard on the leg before scampering away from his silver needle and under the same dresser I'd hidden behind when I'd first arrived. We'd been playing this game of cat and mouse now for who knew how long, though I'd guess it was morning now. He was certainly a wily one, every tactic that I'd tried had failed, he flailed away from my cloud of barely visible smoke, he jabbed my water buffalo right in the nose (which still stung), everything I'd tried just blew up in my face, and we had now thoroughly destroyed his bedroom. He was tiring though, I could see it, so I decided to try something different. I became a cloud again, and drifted under the base of what had once been the dresser, but had since been destroyed after I made it my home base in the room. I quickly turned into a large fattail scorpion, and waited patiently underneath my nook. The scorpion's hairy legs detected the vibrations of the man walking over to the remnants of the dresser. _Yes, yes, come on,_ I thought to myself, hoping against hope. But it seemed the sleepless night had taken a toll on the old man's wits, and he bent down to look underneath the shattered wood block. Much to my glee, I drove my neurotoxin filled tail straight into his eye. He fell back, screaming and cupping his bleeding eye. I drifted out from under the cupboard and over to the windowsill, where I became a gull. I looked down at the writhing man, soon the servants would be awake and find him there, but he'd be dead before that happened. The gull took to the wing and flew out over the city to find its master. The servants were going to have a time with this one. A smashed door, a destroyed room, and a man dead by a needle to the eye. Yes, I'd been very discrete.

Chapter 11 – Qyrth

The party had been marching for the better part of the night, and now, finally, they approached the white village. Qyrth labored under the third box along with three other young men. Ahead, past the two other boxes, Charron lead the procession, and behind, thirty warriors followed in full war dress. Immet had not been allowed to come, being too young, and had remained at the village. "Bring honor to our family." He had whispered and touched Qyrth's forehead in a symbol of respect. He had nodded and left without further exchange. Hours later, they could see the tops of the houses in the distance, and livened their pace to reach them.

The doors of the city wall were enormous, larger than anything Qyrth had ever known. He could not imagine they would move, but in the wake of their approach, a trump was sounded, and they swung inwards with hardly a sound. Qyrth was perplexed with the foreignness of it all. He huffed under the weight of the box he had carried through the night and dragged it inside and down a road lined with houses, from which pale-eyes people poured to watch them go by. A few cheered at them, though Qyrth could not comprehend why. An emissary of soldiers met them in the road after a few minutes of carrying into the city. Qyrth and the others dropped the boxes to the ground. Charron towered over all of them. "The gold?" One of the pale-eyes men asked him in their language. Charron nodded, and a cheer erupted from the crowd. Two soldiers bent to remove the lid, and others moved to do so to the other boxes. Scarcely had the soldiers' fingers touched the top of the box than the starved spirit trapped within burst out, and without warning, devoured the nearby soldiers, head first. Qyrth knew he was protected, but still felt nauseated by the spectacle. The crowd screamed and began running. After it had finished with the nearby soldiers, the demon moved on to the citizens, tearing and rending flesh to feed its insatiable hunger. The soldiers nearby the other two boxes moved back in horror, refusing to touch the tops. With a battle cry, Qyrth kicked the lid off his box and released the demon onto the people. The other warriors followed suit and soon all had joined in with the slaughter of the people who had murdered their chief. The demons tore and burned everything apart. Men, beast, stone. And the noble warriors drew their weapons and finished anything that escaped. A squadron of soldiers assembled and marched towards the assailants. A demon swooped down and took several away in its mouth like a terrible pelican. The others broke ranks and simply rushed the warriors, screaming hysterically. Qyrth pulled one of his twin shihas from his belt and gripped it lightly in his hand. With a jerk, it spun through the air and impaled itself into a soldier's face. He drew the other and rushed forward. Hacking down a pale-eyes man with a mantis like stroke to the neck. He reached the fallen man and retrieved his shiha from what had once been the man's face. Turning, he discovered that his brothers in arms had already dispatched the rest of the soldiers, and they let out a triumphant shout together. "Brothers, to me!" Came a shout from west down the road, the group turned and saw Charron, stained with blood, beckoning them towards him. They raced down the road to follow him, leaving the others pillaging and killing with the demons.

Chapter 12 – Circilus

Finally accepting relief, Circilus had been returning home when the fighting broke out. In truth, it was more of a slaughter, and several mile high fires broke out in the middle of the city. Eyes widening, he turned and ran in the opposite direction, heading for the brown district. Every step was agony, and he thought his side was open wide by the time he arrived at Helmirgh's shop. He burst through the door, breathless, to find Helmirgh sleeping in her corner. Just like her to sleep through the apocalypse. He rushed over and shook her like she would expel salt, yelling at the top of his lungs. She did wake up, and slapped him left and right before brandishing a knife at him and swearing profusely. "Are you deaf as well as blind!?" Circilus panted, "The city is under attack by demons! Call all your spirits and send them to defend at once!" Helmirgh plunged the knife into the floor an inch from Circilus's foot. "Do I look like I have a thousand demons to direct at moment's notice? No! Just the one! And _that_ one is currently in the business of killing your father, just like you begged me to make it do!" Circilus leapt back from the knife, buried halfway in the wooden floor. "It must be done by now! Call it back, this is more important!" "Bah!" Helmirgh shouted, but shuffled over to her pentacle anyway. "One of these days I am going to give it to you, you impudent boy." She muttered and lit her candles.

Chapter 13 – Ophios

I didn't get the chance to return because I was summoned midflight by my impatient mistress. I obliged immediately, as I was already heading to that same spot, and appeared in the miniscule pentacle as the angry dwarf. My masters seemed to have been tumbled around a rock slide a bit. The hag's scraggly hair stuck up like porcupine quills, and the youth was now wearing armor, except it had come undone on one shoulder and now hung from the other in a disheveled manner. I bowed courteously, "I have completed the task, masters, and now I would appreciate dismissal." I said beguilingly, hoping to get some results. "Hah! Stupid demon! You really think I will let you go now? No!" I should've known I was serving this kind of master. "The city is under attack by invaders, and you will defend it on penalty of the Dismal Flame!" I rolled my eyes at her urgency, cities get destroyed all the time, it's not like it'll end up on the bottom of the sea. "Now get out. And remember what awaits you should you fail."

Now I was definitely sure there were a slew of illegal magicians in Rome, because a horde of spirits had already been dispatched to fight. The human invaders had mostly dispersed, and I found a couple looting shops on my way to the battleground. I promptly incinerated them. When I arrived at the central road I found a bit of a firefight going on. The three enemy demons were destroying buildings on one end, slowly expanding their radius of destruction, while a host of spirits on the other end were firing Detonations at them. The enemies were outnumbered about ten to one, the only problem was the vast majority of defending spirits were less powerful than an incense candle, and the enemies were all high ranking djinn, one might have been an afrit. They shrugged off the feeble Detonations like midges and went on demolishing buildings. Every now and then one would fire a halfhearted Detonation back and take out a few dozen defenders. Another problem was the defenders were constantly squabbling and doing more damage to each other than the invaders. I dove to the defending side and ditched my gull shape for a huge burly man with muscles like tree trunks, and threw in a nice big war hammer for good measure. I surveyed the scene. The spirits had stopped their shenanigans at the appearance of my magnificence, a foliot spat out an imp, another stopped shooting fireball loops into the air for no reason. I picked up an imp and popped it into my mouth, partly to send a message and partly because I was hungry. I began to work out a plan in my head, involving a catapult, a couple elemental spheres, and a desert shaman. But instead I simply threw the nearest foliot at the three djinn and ignited him with a Detonation, creating a huge explosion that got the three's attention. They turned around and I leapt up to meet them. One was in the shape of a three headed serpent with human legs, one a gigantic floating boulder with tentacles protruding from the bottom (I didn't really understand that one), and the last a simple shadow, with glowering red eyes and a slit for a mouth. The shadow squinted at me and smiled with its slit mouth, "Ophios! Is that you behind that horrible guise?" It said in a rasping voice, "Rksos!" I replied, "been a long time hasn't it!" I knew Rksos from a couple millennia back, he had also been forced to build that stupid Inca city. We'd gotten along fine, we'd not tried to kill each other, so in spirit terms that made us practically brothers. "Too long, too long. Did you ever find out what the answer to that question was?" Rksos said casually, "Yes, however it turned out to be quite underwhelming, a stupid number, but I forget what it was." Rksos nodded, "a shame, a shame." I scuffed my boot on the cobblestones, "well now I suppose I have to destroy you." Rksos laughed, "No hard feelings Ophios, but please do forgive me when I destroy _you_." I rolled my eyes, perhaps other djinn would have been taken in this sort of back and forth, but I ended it with a Spasm aimed at Rksos's head. He deftly moved away and the spasm hit the floating tentacle boulder, making it tilt slightly and knocking pebbles from its side. It groaned angrily and turned towards me with a lurch. "Not to worry Blodbekkon, I will take care of this" Rksos said calmingly, and the boulder went back to knocking over a tower. In the time Rksos had spent consoling his tentacley colleague, I had advanced on him and now I flattened him with a blow from my hammer. At least that was the plan. Rksos caught the hammer with his shadowy hands and crushed it like bread, then sent a Detonation roaring into my chest that flung me backwards into the cobbles. He leapt into the air and flew down in my direction. I rolled to the side and he crashed into the ground, slightly dazed. I riddled him with a Flux and he groaned, slashing at me with a dark hand, which I deflected and bopped him on the head with a meaty fist. He responded by sinking his needle teeth into my fleshy arm, exposing essence. I seized his neck with my other arm and tore him off like a leech, thus holding him, I shook him about and rubbed his face in the dirt a bit before holding him out and blasting a Detonation right into his face. He lit himself on fire and I was forced to drop him, rubbing my singed palm. He lunged forward and I shifted into a good pond's worth of water and draped myself across him, dousing the flames, and then transformed into an anaconda, wrapping my coils around him tightly. He seemed to have disappeared for a moment, and my coils tightened on nothing, until a piercing pain shot through my left flank. I straightened out and looked over my considerable length. I found a large Gila monster lizard clamping its venomous jaws down on my scaly skin and I wriggled madly trying to shake it off. Eventually I became a hippopotamus and just sat on Rksos's Gila monster, for which I received a resounding Spasm to my lower quarters. I sat up madly and snapped up the Gila monster in my tusked jaws before it had time to change. This was a risky move, since at this point Rksos and I were at about the same strength, and it was entirely possible his essence would eat away mine and not the other way around. I felt a burning sensation in my belly and thought the worst, but eventually it cooled away and I belched, to the applause of the minor spirits behind me. It was a bit of a residual victory though, as I was in no shape to fight both other spirits after that battle, especially the boulder, which I was now pretty sure was definitely an afrit. The hippo slumped and I wondered what to do next.

Chapter 14 – Qyrth

Charron beat the doors yet another time, and they burst open, allowing the warriors to pour into the palace. They found a cowering slave behind a cabinet, and made him tell him where Jonst was. They hurled themselves up the stairs and into the room, though they found the doors barricaded. Charron held the man down while Qyrth and the others bound him and shoved a gag in his mouth. They ripped a post from a bed and tied the man to it. They carried the post on their shoulders as they tromped through the city, killing anyone they found. Three times soldiers attempted to free Jonst, and three times they were driven away. Eventually they found the city square, and carried Jonst to the podium on which the common people were addressed. The rest of the warriors had gathered a good number of people into the square. They did not need all of them, just enough to send a clear message. Charron lay the post where Jonst was bound on the ground, and pulled the gag out of his mouth. A fire was lit behind, and Jonst was pulled into an upright position before the people. "You want for gold?" Charron whispered to the whimpering man in stilted Latin. From within his robes he drew out a golden vase, a relic of the tribe's ancient past, and handed it to Qyrth, who carried it and dumped it into the lead pot hung over the now raging fire. Almost immediately it began to wilt and liquefy. To Qyrth it seemed almost more beautiful this way, like a glistening waterfall. Charron made a motion with his hand and two warriors moved to his side, seizing the bound praetor's face and holding his mouth open. Jonst was breathing heavily and jerking back and forth, trying to yell through the fingers forcing his jaw open. "Bring that to me." Charron pointed at the pot full of liquid gold. Qyrth gripped it by the leather covered handles and pulled it up from the wooden brace that suspended it above the flames, carried it to the chief and handed it to him. Charron yanked it away and carried it to the praetor. Seeing it, Jonst began struggling more urgently, letting stunted screams go into the air. A few Romans tried to rush forward and were cut down by the attending warriors. "Let you have gold" Charron murmured decidedly in Latin. "No! No! Noooo!" Jonst screeched against his captors as Charron tipped the bubbling pot down, letting the molten gold spill into the praetor's mouth. His screams were bloodcurdling, and his body jerked and spasmed against his bonds. The crowd shouted in fear and anguish and many more attempted to save their leader. None travelled farther than five paces. The gold filled the man's mouth and bubbled out across his chin, hissing as it hit flesh, but still he lived on, eyes dancing in pain, mouth forever frozen in an agonized scream. For ten minutes he struggled in misery, then slumped, face eternally marred by his desire. The post bearing his body was bound to the front of the podium as a reminder to all those who saw it. The remaining observing crowd was beaten senseless and then allowed to go their ways.

Qyrth was dispatched with nineteen other warriors against the remaining soldiers and politicians not killed by the demons, who were still wreaking havoc upon the city. Zulo, a man in their company, spoke Latin well, and they soon found their prey cowering within a bathhouse, having barricaded the doors with all manner of wooden objects. They soon broke through and burst into the bathhouse, finding a party of twenty five soldiers guarding a circle of shivering aristocrats. They wasted no time, and with swift throws of their shihas, killed and wounded many of the soldiers before they could even draw their swords. The rest cowardly lay down their weapons and knelt upon the ground, much to the rich men's dismay. They stripped the soldiers of their armor and marched the whole company down the streets to the square, knocking them with the butts of their shihas if they misstepped. Charron and the remaining warriors waited for them below the podium. Above them hung the body of the former praetor. At the sight of this, the captives wailed and a few vomited on the ground. The warriors forced the captive to their knees and Charron beckoned Zulo to him to act as translator. "Who do you name as your leader?" He asked. The prisoners looked confused before they realized there was a translator present. All pointed to an elderly man with a long gray beard and watery eyes and he was hoisted to his feet. Charron strode casually toward him and looked him up and down. "Fool!" The old man snapped abruptly, "you may have taken the city, but you lack the men to hold it! We have sent word to Caesar himself. In days an entire legion will come down upon you, and you will be hung for your actions!" Charron looked at Zulo until he understood the message, raised a hand and struck the man across the face, he fell back down to the earth with his brethren. Nevertheless, a concerned look strayed across the old chief's face. A sudden crack and pop resounded in the air, and a floating demon in the shape of a small child clothed in leaves appeared. Charron's hand flicked to his concealed silver dagger, but the demon held up its hands in protest. "Wait!" It cried, "I am a messenger of Gnost the holy man, through me you may speak to him freely. He sees through my eyes and hears through my ears." Charron tipped his head in confusion, then seemed to decide and raised his dagger, until he was stopped by Gnost's voice, seemingly from nowhere. "What the demon says is true. You may conceal your weapon, my chief." Charron, perplexed by this new magic, put his dagger away and looked around for the source of the voice. "Indeed, a messenger did escape the city and now rides at a great pace to the capitol. We must consider our proceedings carefully," the voice continued, "One of my faithful demons has been killed by a djinni sent by a magician of this city. The village is in chaos in your absence, I can scarcely prevent a war between tribes. I advise you to return in most haste." Charron and several other warriors spat on the ground, "I will not dishonor my name by abandoning what I have gained. You must send more warriors or demons to aid us, if what you say is true." Charron was now very close to the small demon, and it shuddered in fright at his apparent fury. "Sadly, I cannot assist you any more than I have. My servants are pressed to keep the village in order, and I have little standing with the warriors that remain. Truly, if I may be honest, they despise me for my loyalty to you. No, you must come to a decision according to what you have available." The voice said calmly, which only served to enrage Charron more. "There is something you can do. You may deny it, but I know you are holding out something." He growled at the floating child, "Your loyalty will serve you little should I be forced to return shamefully." A chuckling sound echoed through the air, and the voice was now spiteful and cold, "what purpose does my loyalty serve then? Perhaps I should allow Kanadrabe to take the lands and send my demons to destroy you as well as the white village." Charron took a step back, his face contorted in a moment of rare defeat. "Kanadrabe is a fool. You would never allow him to take the lands." The spirit began to fade away, and the voice returned again. "I will leave my servants to continue the destruction of the city, but I advise you to return straightway. You have accomplished all you desired. They will not forget." The demon cackled and the face faded completely


End file.
